


I Was Here and He Was Right Next To Me

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [33]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Memories, Reunions, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-31
Updated: 2006-08-31
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 17.  Sam & Dean are back from Oklahoma, but Dean has a surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was Here and He Was Right Next To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estrella30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrella30/gifts).



> This was written for estrella30's 2006 birthday, to the prompt: _Sam and Dean in the heart verse when they're older. after dean's hurt and they're more grown up. I'd love some, it doesn't have to be *porny* porn, but even semi schmoopy porn with them after they've been together for all those years._ I think I sort of failed on the porn part, but I think the schmoop came through on double time. Thanks to mona1347 for a lightning fast beta. Sorry for the cat hair.

"No, don't get off here."

"But Dean…that's our exit." Sam keeps driving anyway, though, and Dean feels warmth flush through him. Goddamn, he's missed Sam.

"Only if we were going home."

"We're not going home?" Sam glances sideways at him. This would've been easier if Dean could still drive but even an automatic can't compensate for no depth perception. He feels bad about making Sam drive but for obvious reasons it's not like Mike could have driven them. Besides, Sam slept for the whole damn plane ride.

Not that Sammy doesn't look like he could use all of that plus another couple _weeks_. Dean kicks himself one more time for letting this go on for so long. Still, he feels a flicker of anticipation. It's not often he gets to surprise Sam. "Nope," he says smugly.

"Dean…I'm really tired. It's been a long day and I really don't feel like a trip to the bar or something like that."

"It's not the bar either," Dean puts his hand over Sam's thigh and smirks to himself when Sam jumps slightly and then spreads his legs a little. Sammy's so fucking easy sometimes. "It's a surprise."

"Aw, Dean," Sam groans. "Your surprises are like your pranks—they're _lame_."

"Just because you lack a decent sense of humor, Sammich, does _not_ mean that my pranks _or_ my surprises are lame."

Sam takes his right hand off the wheel and reaches to cup Dean's cock through his jeans. It's Dean's turn to jump and Sam chuckles softly. If Sam's hand were anywhere else, Dean would bat it away. Or…maybe not. It's been a while. Jesus. Nine months. "I just want to get laid and then get some sleep."

"Samuel Winchester, just what kind of man do you think I am?" Dean asks, shifting up into the too-gentle press of Sam's fingers and ignoring the twinge in his hip.

"I know you don't want me to answer that question."

"Shut up. Anyway, it's already been arranged."

"Why don't I like the sound of that?"

***

"Uh-huh." Dean crosses his arms. "Now what?"

Sam finishes drying his hair and tosses the towel at one of the chairs. "I take it back. I take everything back," he says contritely. He doesn't know how Dean managed this, a large and luxurious pseudo-cabin with a bed that seems the size of their whole bedroom. "You are the King of surprises, the sultan of shock, the pasha of …okay, I don't have a 'p'. Panic?" He crawls onto the bed next to Dean, reaching out with one hand to skim up Dean's leg. He feels like he's been touching Dean almost every moment since Dean found him on the concourse in Oklahoma, but Dean hasn't complained yet and so he keeps pushing, hungry and almost desperate. Nine months, barring a handful of snatched days, mostly spent dealing with school business. Nine months of not enough sex, not enough time, not enough Dean. "How's your leg?"

Dean shrugs. "Fine." He's lying; Sam knows the plane ride alone must have been murder and Dean's sitting slightly cocked to one side, favoring his hip. But Sam's not going to quibble or call him on it.

He lies down on his belly and the bed encloses him like a cloud. "Oh, God," he moans softly. "This mattress… Do you _know_ what kind of beds I've been sleeping on?"

"I think my memory goes back that far, yeah." Dean says wryly and puts his hand across Sam's bare back—still slightly dewy from his shower—and traces small, light circles. Sam sighs and arches a little almost purring with the twin joys of _home_ and _Dean._

"How did you do all this?" he asks finally, afraid he can just fall asleep like this if he doesn't keep talking. "We can't afford anything like this."

"Sammy!" Dean sounds outraged and Sam hides his grin against the blanket. "Who are you talking to? What is this…'afford' crap? This cabin is ours gratis—that means free, by the way—for the next week."

"A week?" Sam sits up on his elbows, eyes wide as he glances around. "And I _know_ what gratis means, jerk. But how…we can't take that much time off." He hesitates. "Can we?

"We can and we are," Dean says firmly. "It's going to take you at least that long to make up all the blow jobs you owe me for being gone so long."

Sam chokes a little and then laughs. "Well, why don't we get started on that, then?" Sam says, shifting over onto his hip and sliding his other leg carefully over Dean's. He lips across the bundle of scar tissue, feeling Dean's thigh tremble a little at the touch. He knows it still embarrasses Dean a little when he does this, probably the only scar Dean doesn't wear with defiant pride, but he thinks it pleases Dean too—that Sam wants to, that Sam will still touch him there.

Dean's hand makes larger, sloppier circles on Sam's back, triggering all his nerve endings and sending blood and desire through him like wildfire. And then suddenly, Dean stops. "Wait," Dean says, his voice rough and choked. He grips Sam's shoulder, pushing him away a little. "Wait."

Sam pulls back and blinks at Dean, not sure if he should feel hurt or not. "Wait? What?"

"I have something else. The cabin's just the gravy. I got you a present." Dean turns away and leans precariously over the edge of the bed, fishing for something on the floor.

"A present?" Sam repeats dully. Most of the blood in his body has relocated into his dick and he feels pretty confident he must have heard Dean wrong. Dean doesn't _do_ presents. Hell, he needs Mike to practically hold his hand when it comes to Christmas and birthdays. "Dean, you didn't have to get me anyth…"

Dean comes up with two bottles of Red Stripe in his hand and Sam laughs. Oh. Okay. This is more in line with something Dean would come up with. "I know I didn't," Dean says stiffly, straining just a little and Sam puts out a hand to help him heave himself back up on the mattress. The bottles are cold, sweating and suddenly Sam's salivating just a little bit. Beer would just about hit the spot right now. Sam twists the caps off and starts to hand Dean one of the beers only to realize that Dean's got something in his other hand too; a flat metal box with a lid, dull gray and ordinary.

Dean takes his beer and tips the bottle at Sam. "To Mom," he says.

Sam tips it back, the other half of their ritual. "To Dad."

They don't get to do this often—refer to their parents as anything but Mary and John; the man that took them in and trained them and the wife he lost to a demon. "Mom" and "Dad" are words they speak in whispers and only when alone, an almost-secret code. It aches rottenly sometimes—hell, most of the time—but given a choice between the living and the dead, Sam picks Dean every time.

"What's this?" Sam asks, putting the thought aside as he accepts the box from Dean and then takes a long pull off his beer. It tastes just as good as he thought it would and Sam closes his eyes for a second, wondering if the day could get much better than this—warm, naked and comfortable with Dean and beer and the prospect of both sex and then a long undisturbed sleep. "Looks like a safety deposit box."

"Score one for my idiot brother," Dean says, tipping his head back to take several swallows of his own beer.

"You serious?" Sam's bemused. "For what? Our astonishing collection of useless credit cards and fake ids? Neither one of us has anything worth shit, Dean, other than the school and the land it's on."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Oh, my God, I'd forgotten how much you yak on about nothing, Sammy. This just goes to prove my point about you."

Sam raises his chin. "Yeah? What's that?"

"That whole 'smarter brother' thing is total bullshit. And how do I know this, you might ask?"

"I might?'

Dean ignores him. "I know this because a _smart_ man would have at least _opened_ the box by now to see if there was anything inside it."

"Oh. Heh. Yeah."

Surprisingly, instead of teasing him again, Dean merely leans forward, supporting himself on his arm and good leg and brushes his mouth over Sam's. Sam leans into it, eyes slipping closed and his hand closing over Dean's shoulder for that extra bit of support. Dean's mouth opens to Sam's tongue and he pushes his way in, tasting, licking, rolling the flavor of Dean over his palate. Dean's lip is fat and swollen under Sam's teeth and he suckles it a while, whining in his throat without shame. When he pulls away, Dean's pupils are huge and he murmurs, "Happy birthday, Sammy, my boy."

"My birthday's not for another month," Sam corrects, opening the lid of the box finally.

"I know that," Dean says, the exasperation returned to his voice. "But if I did this _then_ you'd know what it was for." He kneads Sam's thigh, distracting and returning interest to Sam's mostly-hard cock. "Use the upstairs brain here, man."

"Keep doing that and there won't be any blood left in my upstairs brain," Sam answers absently. In the box is a journal, sort of like Dad's but fancier, the leather of the cover stamped and burned in the shape of a tree. Sam scoops it out of the box and opens the cover.

"This," Dean says, "is me and my little brother Sammy when he was a baby. You should have seen Dad's face when the nurse came out and told him it was a boy and that Mom was fine. He swooped me up off the floor and laughed and said, 'What do you think about that, kid? You got a younger brother!'"

Sam hasn't seen this picture in years, part of the long list of things dangerous to keep around. He's surprised to see it now and—not that he in any way, shape or form admits any such thing—he thinks he might actually feel a little choked up about seeing it now, like this, so unexpectedly and lovingly preserved.

"Dean, what…?"

"I wanted to name you Optimus Prime," Dean confides regretfully. "But I was outvoted." He looks steadily at Sam, some message in his changeable eyes that Sam can't quite read, but after a moment, Sam scoots up the bed to settle against Dean's side, the opened journal resting on both their thighs.

"This is Sammy's first Christmas," Dean says, his voice sticking a little over the words. The toddler in the center of the picture is almost hidden under wrapping paper, a big wad of it clenched in the fat fist waving over his head. Sam sees Dean in the upper left corner of the picture, cross-legged and with a baseball mitt disregarded in his lap. He's not smiling, eyes watchfully trained on baby Sam. "Dad…" Dean's voice drops a little. "Dad held us both on his lap and said it was just us men now. That we were all we had and we had to stick together."

There had been a period of time—years—where they took no pictures, other than the various mugshots for pasting into their forged identifications, so the next picture is years later. "This is my geek brother in fifth grade," Dean says. His fingers curl idle patterns over Sam's back and Sam's not sure who it soothes more; him or Dean. "He won some kind of science fair or something. He was always into dorky shit like that."

Sam smiles. Dean is right behind him in the picture, holding up the hand in which Sam holds his blue ribbon and the pride on his face as great as if he'd won the damn prize himself. He'd mercilessly teased Sam about it for weeks too.

Another page and here's the ancient playbill from Sam's childhood turn in Our Town, Sam's name circled in ubiquitous Winchester red marker. The playbill is crumpled and faded and the corner is missing—probably where Dean tore it off to dispose of his gum—but the fact that it's here at all astonishes him. Dean is not the sentimental one, a role as fixed as Sam the geek-brain, as fixed as the North Star.

Here's Dean in his baseball uniform and Sam making rabbit ears behind him and there is Sam looking stiffly uncomfortable in a secondhand and too-long suit, holding the hand of Nabila Shaar while Dean makes faces in the background. There's the three of them, on the hood of the car looking impossibly young, looking like the only family Sam's ever known. There's Mexico, the feast day of some random saint and Dean and Sam sitting on the Impala's hood grinning so wide it's a wonder the tops of their heads didn't fall off. There's the day the construction on the house was finished, the two of them squinting into the sun and almost vibrating with glee. Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam and through it all, Dean's voice weaving it together: _my brother, my brother Sam, Sammy my dork fantastique brother…_

Sam has to give Dean credit for that. He knows it's cost Dean something—a lot—to live the way they do and the impulse to shame is strong. The instinct to hide, to deny, to make it something other than it is. But Dean's never made it anything other than exactly what it is: he's Sam's older brother and partner and lover and he's never flinched from a single one of those things. He's never been any less than all of what he is, even when he himself wasn't sure what those things were, even if he couldn't say it out loud. Because that's Dean.

 _Thank you,_ Sam wants to say. And _I love you,_ too, while he's at it. And maybe later, when Dean's stupid and glazed from the absolutely amazing sex that Sam's planning to have any second now, he will say it, earning a roll of Dean's happy-crinkled eyes and a sloppy kiss to his temple instead of the defensive shuck and jive Dean will give him now.

But then he's looking at the pictures again and he realizes he's missed the point. Or…not missed it, exactly, but not comprehended the whole. Because Dean _is_ saying all of those things—brother, lover, love—but there's a second side to it. None of the pictures are of just Dad, or just Mom. In every picture, it's really him and Dean and everything else is just…background noise. Dean is telling him _I remember. I remember all of you_ , but he's also saying _Here. Be here. Be here with me, because it's you and me and it always has been. Be here now._

"Dean," he says softly, interrupting. Dean looks at him, a question in his eyes. Sam smiles and easy as that, Dean smiles back. "I'm home," Sam says.

Dean's eyes darken and when he inhales, it seems to pull all the air out of the world, making Sam dizzy and intoxicated with the lack of oxygen. "Yeah," he says gruffly. "Yeah, you are."

Sam laughs. And that feels like it's been forever too. "Hey," he says, shifting around, "why don't I get on that dick-sucking thing now? I'd hate to get any further behind. And I _do_ owe you." 


End file.
